Sherlock Holmes and the Return of the Woman
by TheSweetClover
Summary: It is a normal day with Sherlock Holmes - if such a day COULD be called normal, that is - when he is reunited with the beautiful, and newly widowed, Irene Adler. Can the Master Detective keep his rarely seen emotions from interfering with his work?


**Author's Note: People are telling me to upload this, and so I am. Not that this is at LEAST a year old, and done without any outlining... so it's pretty bad. Heh. Don't judge me! /runs away and hides/ Oh, by the way, how on earth do I keep the spacing the same as I wrote it in? I don't use doublespace or whatever this is...  
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I, John H. Watson, take up my pen now to write this, a most compromising of tales. My friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes, pleaded with me not to make this case known until he gave permission, fearing possible catastrophic consequences, but now that he has retired I have been permitted to speak upon this delicate subject.

It began one spring, the year '95, I believe, when I and Sherlock Holmes were taking a leisurely stroll down Baker Street.

"And there was no mud on your boots," my friend was saying, taking one lengthy stride for every two of mine, "though it has been raining heavily; thus add up all the facts and they prove you were _not_ out on a call, but went to Reddenford's Pub and had fish and chips without me."

"Well, that may be," I answered. "However... You are not usually the most social man, Holmes. How was I to know you wanted to go?"

He sniffed. "You could at least of had the decency to ask."

We continued in silence for a ways, Holmes' thin lips set in a tight frown. I really did not know he liked Reddenford's so much. I was about to apologize when suddenly a small boy darted out, snatched the cane from my companion, and ran down the walk, laughing.

With a cry of outrage, Holmes dashed after the thief, long legs gaining quickly. (Yet leaving me behind)

Just as I was about to lose them in the crowd, the boy leapt out into the street, right into the path of a cab. The horse's hooves thundered on the cobblestones, and thief he may have been, my heart fluttered when I saw that there was no hope of rescue.

Then Sherlock Holmes flung himself at the child, knocking the boy out of the way but narrowly avoiding being trampled himself. Amid the angry shouts of the cabby, my friend quickly sprang to his feet and grabbed the boy in his arms, pulling him out of the road. I hurried over, fearing the child to have suffered some injury.

My worries were in vain. By the time I got there, the boy was laughing, demanding for it to be done again.

"Well Holmes," I breathed, scarcely believing our good-fortune, "we have a little adventure-lover. Maybe we should recruit him to help solve mysteries."

Sherlock allowed himself a short laugh, clearly as relieved as I that the child was none-the-worse for wear.

"I don't know Watson; he would scare all the villains away, and then what would I do?" The detective always had an apparent soft spot for youths. He turned to the boy. "Well, my lad," he said, "_where_ is your mother?"

The boy pointed a grubby hand.

Holmes scooped the child up in his long arms and we set off down the walkway. Our hearts fell, however, as we neared a massive throng of people. How could we hope to find a single being in _this_?

"Do you see her?" I asked the boy.

He would say nothing.

Holmes shrugged. "Nothing we can do but look. He couldn't have gotten far from her."

I nodded, eyes already scanning the crowd. Many women passed, and I feared we had already missed the mother when, through a break in the crowd, I spied a lady darting around nervously.

"There she is, Holmes!"

The cold, grey eyes glanced down at me. "I see nothing."

"Well, I see her. Come, follow me." I began to move after our quarry.

Holmes stood still, the chiseled, hawk-like profile unmoving, as if it was carved from stone.

"Do you doubt me?" I asked.

Sherlock Holmes raised his eyes towards the heavens. "Your deductions are often...less than accurate, Watson."

I felt as if this was payback, a cruel revenge. "It is a woman with an older daughter and a baby, and she is looking around worriedly and calling for someone. I do not believe we can go wrong."

The boy began to squirm, so Holmes reluctantly began to follow me as I weaved through the crowd.

At last the mob parted and we stood before a lady. Her back was to us, and she was calling for 'Steven.'

Sherlock went up to her and cleared his throat politely. "Ahem… Madam, I do believe we–"

The lady turned, and I saw the beautiful face I have only before seen on a photograph Sherlock Holmes keeps locked in a drawer.

It was Irene Adler.

Holmes paled for a moment, but quickly recovered himself and put on a cheerful front. "I say, is that Irene Adler, or do my eyes deceive me?"

Irene laughed. "Irene _Norton_, remember? And I thought _you_ fell down a cliff!"

"I am afraid the world is not rid of me so easily. But, here, I do believe this is your Steven."

Steven pulled out of Holmes' arms and sprinted away.

"Oh, blast it, there he goes again!" I prepared to give chase.

"No, it's quite alright," Mrs. Norton said. "He runs off all the time."

Sherlock fingered his cane and eyed the crowd where the boy vanished. "Yes, I think he is quite accustomed to the street..."

"How is Mr. Norton," I said, quickly trying to change the subject. "Is he well?"

Irene was quiet for a moment. "He's…dead; he killed himself. We are in London to collect… the body."

Holmes' professional instincts were aroused. "Killed, you say? Why was he in London?"

The widow was about to burst into tears. "He was just here to sign something for the bank! I didn't think he'd…"

My friend led the lady to a bench and had her sit. "I do hope you'll forgive me asking, but can you think of any cause? How is your financial situation going? Well or poorly?"

"Well, very well… Best it has ever been…"

"I see." The hard eyes grew distant, the fingers gently stroked the chin, and I knew that Sherlock Holmes was now on a case. "May I ask to see the place your husband was killed? Something tells me this was not a suicide."

Irene smiled softly. "Yes… Yes of course, if you say so. We can go this very instant. That is, after we find Steven..."

It was not long until we located the boy, hailed a cab, and were drawing to a stop in front of a large, inelegant building that looked to be a warehouse.

"Now, Mrs. Norton," said Sherlock Holmes, "tell me; has anything been moved?"

"No, nothing that I know of…"

"Very good." Holmes stepped down and helped the lady out of the cab. "Now, if you would be kind enough to lead…?"

Irene nodded and showed us into the building. The inside was just as dusty and plain as it looked on the outside.

We were walking up a creaky flight of stairs when Holmes suddenly cried for us to stop and flung himself flat on the floor.

"What is it, Holmes!" I pulled out my old service revolver and motioned for Irene to get behind me.

"Calm down, my dear Watson," Sherlock Holmes sighed from his position on the floor, magnifying glass in one hand. "It is only a footprint. I just didn't want you to scuff it."

"Oh, yes…of course."

Looking slightly befuddled, Irene took the lead again, and we soon came to the room where the deceased lay.

Mrs. Norton wanted to stay outside, so Holmes and I went in alone.

The deed, had it been done by the husband or some stranger, had been done with a gun.

"This was not a professional killing," Holmes said. "Look at the blood splattered everywhere. Messy, messy, messy; they didn't know what they were doing…"

He drifted over to the body, but didn't look at it long, attention attracted by a small table sitting nearby.

"Come here Watson, look at this."

I came over, averting my eyes from the body; I may be a doctor but that was a sickening sight. "What is it?"

"A suicide note."

"So he did himself in?"

"I did not say that. What do you make of it?"

"Like I said, he killed himself!"

Sherlock breathed deeply and stared at me. "Surely you see more?"

"I see nothing, Holmes. Maybe you'll enlighten me."

My friend snorted and turned back to the note. "Notice the blood, Watson. See how it was splattered all over the table?"

"Yes, I am _quite_ aware of it…"

"None is on the note, but I am certain"—he gently lifted a corner to show the stained wood—"that it is underneath."

"This…this means it was a murder."

Holmes laughed. "Very good, Watson! We will make a detective of you yet!"

"I do not find that funny."

A smile flashed across Sherlock Holmes' features, and then he strode across to the body and began to inspect it. "We have proof that it was murder now, but a more important thing remains; we must find a clue to the murder_er_."

"I'll leave you to that, then."

I walked over to the single window in the room and looked out to the lovely sight of grey brick. How charming. I was about to turn away, when something caught my eye.

"Holmes!"

He was beside me in a flash. "What?"  
>I pointed to a small red smudge.<p>

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and peered through it.

"Is it a fingerprint?" I asked.

"Yes, a thumbprint. Good eye, man! We could have left without this vital information! Now the case should be exceedingly simple!"

"What?" I asked. "Can you tell who it is from?"

Holmes shook his head at my ignorance. "We shall need the Yard for that. But the killer had long fingernails."

"How the duce can you tell _that_?"

He pointed to a slight line of red next to the smudge. "The fingernail had blood on it as well, and that is the mark it left. Elementary."

After looking a bit longer and finding nothing, we returned to our rooms at Baker Street, making plans to meet with Irene Norton the next day.

As we entered 221b, Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper, shuffled up to us with an air of annoyance.

"Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson!" she said, "you _must_ inform me before you run off like you do! I have had dinner ready for an hour, and it's not getting any warmer!"

"My dear Mrs. Hudson," Holmes purred suavely, "your cooking is _so_ succulent that being cold lessens it none."

That seemed to pacify her, for with a final look and muttering the old widow returned to the kitchen.

As she hurried away, Holmes growled something under his breath I do not know that I was intended to hear.

"…your cooking doesn't even come _close_ to Reddenford's, though…"

I must remember to never go there without him again.

We were soon in our apartment, supping on half-cold game hen.

Or at least, I was.

Sherlock Holmes was picking at his food, eyes glazed as his fork meticulously pulled the meat off a wing. With a great sigh, he pushed his chair away from the table and went to the window to light his pipe, as he did when in the deepest meditations.

"Won't you eat _anything_?" I knew he wouldn't, but I asked anyway.

"No, Watson," he answered. "My brain cannot even have the least of distractions."

This was exasperating. "But I thought the case was exceedingly simple!"

"It is." Holmes fingered his watch-chain. "And that is the problem."

I rose to my feet, appetite affectively ruined by curiosity. "I fail to understand why that can be problematic."

Holmes took a long pull on his pipe and turned back to the window.

I recognized the symptoms; I would get no more out of Sherlock tonight.

"Well," I said, "do as you wish, Holmes, but I'm going to bed. Just drink something once and a while to keep life in you. I couldn't pay the rent alone."

When I woke the next morning, I found Sherlock Holmes missing from the apartment—a very dangerous thing in this mood. When questioned upon it, Mrs. Hudson revealed that Holmes had left early to show the fingerprint to the Scotland Yard. "And he left without a crumb passing his lips, he did."

Holmes was going to run himself down if he kept this up.

Too agitated to stay in the house, I paced up and down the walk on Baker Street, waiting for Sherlock to return. "There's nothing at all to be worried about," I thought. "He goes without food all the time, and has always been fine."

Apparently I didn't believe myself, for my steps quickened.

At last I spied the lanky figure of Sherlock Holmes weaving through the crowd. Running towards him, I demanded to know why he was gone for so long.

He leaned on his cane. "I wasn't gone but for an hour, Watson. I had to speak with Scotland Yard, as I'm sure Mrs. Hudson told you."

"Yes, I knew that."

He shoved past me. "Then why are you so bothered?"

I didn't answer, for I wasn't sure I knew myself. Instead I changed the subject.

"Isn't Irene coming this morning?"

Holmes shook his head at me as if I was a child. "She left a message before I left; she is to meet us at the Hotel Victoria later today, six post-meridian, if I remember."

I grunted. There went the chance that Sherlock might eat breakfast before she came. "Did Lestrade identify the print?"

Holmes' reply was curt. "No, it wasn't in their records. They had to send it off. Do you wish to know anything _else_?"

I decided then to hush.

I didn't stay long with Holmes; one minute he was annoyed with talking, the next he demanded to know why I was being so quiet. To call it exasperating would be an understatement.

After an especially infuriating comment about my mustache—He thought it, in no uncertain terms, ugly and that I should shave it—I fled to my room and shut the door.

There, in the peace, the unknown fear that had been nagging at me suddenly unveiled itself.

Surely he wouldn't. He couldn't!

No, it was unquestionable.

I flung myself on my bed and tried to drive the thought out of my mind; I failed miserably.

With a hard swallow, I went over to my dresser and opened the hiding place of Sherlock Holmes' one and only detrimental vice.

The small leather case was where I left it, unmoved.

I closed my eyes for a moment, relief flooding over me.

Of course he hadn't. Why dared I think so? I went into the main room, intending to apologize for my behavior.

Holmes was gone.

I went down the passage to his room and knocked on the door.

No answer.

I glanced at my pocket-watch—it was 5:45, so he must have left to meet Mrs. Norton. But why not invite me to go along? Or even tell me he was going?

The unnamed dread was back, pricking down my spine. Sherlock Holmes wasn't acting normal—or at least what was normal for him.

I rushed out of the apartments (Much to the frazzling of Mrs. Hudson) and grabbed a cab, the fear pulsing through me inhibiting all thought.

It seemed hours before we reached Hotel Victoria. I leapt out of the cab, tossed the driver a few coins, and hurried, led by some instinct, to the courtyard.

The concrete patio was filled with a multitude of potted plants, a microcosm of the forest that sprang up around it. In the lengthening shadows, I almost expected to come across an animal. Picking my way through some ferns, I suddenly stopped dead.

There Holmes was, alone! So I hadn't missed anything after all. I was about to make my way towards him, when the porch doors of the Hotel opened.

I dove behind a pot and watched Irene Norton make her way towards my friend.

She opened her mouth to greet him, and I cursed my luck—the wind was blowing their words away from me.

Holmes removed his hat and bowed courteously.

Irene sat down on a marble bench and patted the space next to her, as if inviting Holmes to sit with her, but my friend only smiled and shook his head, apparently choosing to stay standing.

If only I could hear their words.

I could see Mrs. Norton look around the moonlit courtyard and sigh deeply. Then she burst into tears with the suddenness only woman can claim.

That obviously disturbed Sherlock Holmes very much. He bent down slowly and put his hand on her knee, sheer concern on his features.

The wind must have then changed, for the sound of weeping reached my ears.

"There, there, now," Holmes said, with more distress in his voice then I think he wanted; "It's alright. I'll catch whoever killed him; don't worry."

Irene sniffed loudly and turned a tear-stained face up towards him.

"Do…do you promise?"

"I give you my word, Mrs. Norton."

The lady rested a petite gloved hand on Sherlock's. "Please, call me Irene."

Holmes' eyes shifted and he straightened back up to his full height. "I would not dishonor you so."

"You dishonor me more by refusing."

"I must…I cannot…"

Mrs. Norton was quiet for a moment, contemplating the odd response of my friend. Then she rose from her seat and drifted to a patch of flowers, smiling sadly as she picked one.

"Poppies. Godfrey used to buy those for me…"

I watched panic rush over Holmes as Irene threatened to burst into tears again, but his fear was in vain, for the woman recovered herself.

"I'm…I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. I've brought you all the way out here just to spend the time crying."

"It's alright, I don't mind."

"Oh, you are always so polite. But, try as you might to act otherwise, you are really no different than any other man, and I know that crying makes them _very_ uncomfortable."

I do believe that if it was in Sherlock's ability to blush, he would have.

Irene laughed, a laugh that was like high, clear bells on a winter's day. If that was only her laugh, I could easily see why she was a famous singer.

"Really, you do try to be so cold, and it may be just a woman's instincts, but you don't do all that well."

"I don't _try_ to be cold."

She shrugged. "Really? How sad for you, then." She walked past him to admire the moonlight on the koi pond.

Holmes had the most indignant look on his face I have ever seen. He hadn't even recovered by the time Irene returned from the pond. She peered curiously at his strange expression.

"Is something the matter?"

I think I saw him jump. "What? No, no, nothing at all."

"I…see." Mrs. Norton gazed oddly at him for a moment then began reaching into her purse. "I really need to give you some payment for looking in to my husband's death."

Holmes lifted a hand for her to stop. "No, it is not necessary."

She shook her head adamantly. "Yes, it is."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "I will not take a penny from you."

She frowned stubbornly, hands on hips. It was a battle of the wills.

They glared at each other for a while, two of the most obstinate beings on earth locked in competition. Holmes put up an admirable fight, but it was a losing battle; No mere man can match a woman for stubbornness.

I think sweat was breaking out on my friend's brow when Irene laughed. "Oh, come now, you must take something!"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I will not take your money."

"You'll take this, then."

Holmes' entire body stiffened with shock as Irene quickly reached up and gave him a swift kiss on his cheek.

He blinked in confusion as he watched the Woman go back into the Hotel.

Sherlock Holmes stood quietly for a moment, and then turned slowly and left the courtyard.

I left my hiding-place and dashed for my waiting cab, hoping to catch Holmes before he left. Luck was not with me tonight, for he was nowhere to be seen. I went back to Baker Street at all speed, but as I looked up at the light in the window, I feared I was too late.

Now, you may be wondering what on earth I was worried about, and rightfully so, for a normal man would not be greatly disturbed over such an event; but Holmes was not a normal man, and the smallest thing could send him into dangerous moods.

So I leapt up the steps two at a time, undoubtedly waking Mrs. Hudson as I did so. Flinging open the doors to our rooms, I prayed I was only being paranoid.

The fire burned brightly in the hearth, giving me light to see the shadow of Holmes in his chair before the flame, the door to my room agar, and the glint of something in Sherlock's hand.

It took only a second for me to take it all in.

"_HOLMES_!"

My friend practically fell out of his chair as he spun to face me, the cocaine needle gleaming inches from his arm. "Oh, Watson, I, uh—"

"Don't try to cover yourself up, Holmes," I growled, stalking over and snatching the drug out of his grasp. "I don't need your powers to deduce this. However did you find it anyway? I hid it."

"I've always known where it was…" Sherlock was strangely bashful.

This was too much. "You've been using drugs under my nose? And all this time…? I thought you quit!"

A bit of the spark came back into his dull eyes. "I only said I _knew_ where it was, not that I used it." He turned slowly back to the fire. "I had to use it," he said quietly.

"Why?" Suddenly all my anger was gone; Holmes more upset then I had ever seen him.

He glanced at me. "I had...an _issue_ with Mrs. Norton."

"I… I was there, Holmes. It didn't go all that bad; Why cocaine then?"

He closed his eyes miserably, not the least bit surprised at my spying. "Tell me, Watson, why should I not? And I don't want any of your doctor's-speech about brain cells. Apart from my health, why should I not escape from this?"

"Escape _what_?"

That earned me a look. "You say you were there; did you not see it?"

"Apparently not."

With a great sigh, Holmes rested his head in his lanky hands. "Irene is the murderer. She's trying to bribe me into thinking otherwise."

"How on earth did you deduce _that_?" I cried with disbelief. "She seemed perfectly innocent!"

He lifted his head slightly. "She kissed me; I do not see why any woman would do so, but much less a widow who just lost her 'beloved' husband. Other men should be the last thing on her mind. So tell me, why should I not escape this?"

His reasoning seemed flawed to me, but I didn't feel like arguing. "You shouldn't take the drug because you know the moods that come upon you when you use it. In your present state, you'd become dangerous." _And, _I thought but did not dare say, _in a fit of anger you may kill me, meaning to or not._

"So?"

"You must remain able to solve cases; what about Mrs. Norton's husband? We have a murderer on the loose, Holmes."

Sherlock moaned. "I told you, _she_ is the murderer!"

"Why, I wouldn't say that, Holmes…"

He fingered the coin on his watch-chain; Irene gave it to him long ago for being the witness at her wedding—she has no knowledge that it was him, for he was in disguise.

When he spoke, his voice trembled. "I cannot fathom that she did such a thing… I thought she loved him…I did not think she was capable of..."

"I do not doubt that when you knew her, Irene would never have; even now I doubt it. But, if she did as you say…the years change people, my friend."

"Will she forgive me?"

"What?"

"If I turn her in, will she forgive me?"

I glanced away—I could not bear to meet his eyes. "Well, I don't know…I don't even think she did it."

"But I know she did. Just tell me the truth; will she forgive me? Do not spare my feelings, John."

I stood for a moment, mouth gaped wide; he had never called me by my Christian name before. Indeed, it was a while until I could speak.

"I am sorry, Holmes, but in all likelihood you would never be forgiven."

He winced as if stung from a blow, pain flooding his eyes. "What do I do?" he whispered.

I had never seen Sherlock Holmes like this; to him, not turning in a crime was a crime in itself. But Irene…

"Only thing you can do is solve her case and move on," I said. "I'm…I'm sorry. I can stay up with you, if you like."

For a moment Holmes turned his back to me and stared into the dancing flames of the fire. Then he spoke, and I knew I would never see such a show of emotion from him again. "Fetch my pipe, would you Watson?"

I picked a pipe out of the rack and handed it to him; already his eyes had hardened back into steel. He nodded slightly and waved me away.

He wanted to be alone.

Because cocaine was no longer a threat, I headed to my room. Upon reaching my door, I glanced back at my friend.

He was gazing at the Sovereign on his watch-chain, and I think I could see tears in his eyes.

Shaking my head, I went into my bedroom.

Ah, Irene Adler; still of dubious, if no longer of _questionable_, memory.

I dreamed of violin music all that night; a sign that Sherlock was still in the throes of his decision.

The next morning I was surprised to find Holmes sitting at the table, eating a steaming platter of eggs and sausage. Good, even if a bit odd, for now I had no fear of him blowing away like thistle-down. Mouth watering hungrily, I sat at the identical plate.

Sherlock smiled as I picked up my fork and knife. "Mrs. Hudson has outdone herself this morning."

"I see… And you're feeling better?"

Holmes lifted his eyes languidly from his platter and gave me a fixed stare.

A look can mean a thousand words with Sherlock Holmes, to one who knows him; this meant that I better find something else to talk about, or I'd soon be wearing this table for a hat. I obliged.

"Have you been sent anything about that fingerprint?"

"Not yet. But the officials work slowly, which is why I solve so many cases; I don't bother with the rules, I just get facts."

"I'd say." My thoughts began to drift, and I began to marvel at the crispiness of my bacon.

"Watson?" Holmes poked me with his fork.

"Huh?"

"You haven't been listening to a thing I've been saying, have you?"

"You solve so many cases—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "After that."

My blank look must have given me away, for he sighed irritably and began eating again in silence.

To this very day I still don't know what he said.

The remainder of that morning passed in near silence, for I was hesitant to start a conversation, fearing that anything could send Holmes back into a cocaine binge. I think my friend hardly noticed my quiet, though, for he spent his time staring out the window, puffing his pipe.

I jumped when he spoke. "I'm not going to turn Irene in."

"Alright—"

"We don't have the evidence," he cut in. "Scotland yard would laugh me out of London."

"Very well."

I wondered if it was only an excuse, or if we truly didn't have enough to convict her. I was almost lost in thought (or was I falling asleep?) when Holmes called me over to the window.

"You see that man?" He pointed down into the street. "What do you deduce about him?"

"Is he a client?"

"No."

"Then I fail to see the point."

Sherlock sighed. "Go on, back to sleep then…"

"No, no, I'll do it." I peered down at the man Holmes pointed at. "Let's see… he's a short, scrawny man… very short, in fact. His back is all hunched over, but he looks quite young… He must be a carnival freak, then. I can think of nothing else."

Sherlock Holmes gave a short laugh. "Oh, Watson, you amuse me."

I tried to glare at him, but he ignored me.

"The man is not a freak, but a horse jockey. As you no doubt know, they must be small and light. If you bothered to compare him to the other people, you would see that he is not near short enough to be a freak."

"Excuse me, but—"

Holmes lifted his hand. "I'm not done. The crouched posture is due to the hunched-over way that they ride those horses all day. It would quickly do that to someone, especially if they were young and still growing."

Sometimes Sherlock Holmes could be exasperating. "Why on earth did you call me over? It was almost as if you just wanted to put me down!"

My friend looked hurt. "Watson, you know me better than that. It was just that you seemed so depressed, and normally these cheer you right up."

I was at a loss for words. My worrying was making me more irritable then I thought.

"I'm sorry, Holmes…" I grinned playfully, trying to apologize. "But you know, he could be a freak. We have nothing but your word otherwise."

He snorted and headed for his bedroom, good mood now gone.

I stood at the window and waited.

The detective was about to enter his room when he turned and stared at me.

"What the devil are you doing, Watson?"

"Waiting for the stooped man to ring the bell." I started to tap my foot impatiently.

"What gave you the idea he would?"

"Well, whenever we make a deduction on someone and I say something like 'We'll never know, we only have your word,' they always end up coming here for your help, and we figure out that you were right."

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes and opened his bedroom door. "Watson, my friend, you have been writing too many books."

I snorted crossly and went to my room—but it was just a front; I had to agree with him.

It was not long until hunger drove us back into the sitting-room. Mrs. Hudson refused to make us lunch due to all the recent commotion, and so Holmes and I were left gazing at each other across the fire like two hungry tigers.

I inspected my pipe with a degree of annoyance; Sherlock often used it to stay his hunger, but it sure wasn't working for me. "We could go to Reddenford's," I said, desperation edging into my voice. "Would that please you, Holmes?"

He gazed into the fire listlessly, not bothering to even turn his head. "I don't see why you are hungered, Watson. Is not the pipe enough? It is for my body, at least."

"You lie!" I cried. "You are as hungry as me, but you won't admit it!"

Holmes opened his mouth do disagree, but he was interrupted by a loud growl from his stomach.

"Ha! You cannot deny _that_, my friend."

"As a man of medicine, you should know that your stomach does not growl _only_ when hungry."

My laughter was making it hard for me to speak. "No, you are right, it only growls when _empty_."

Holmes glowered and crossed his arms, refusing to look at me. "Well, _it_ may be empty, but _I _am not hungry."

I shrugged indifferently and rose from my chair, reaching for my coat. "Have it your way, then. But _I _am hungry, and _I_ am going to Reddenford's."

Sometime later I sat in Reddenford's Pub, a now-empty plate before me and my hands around a tankard of their best draft. I sipped at it reverently; it was not often that I treated myself to such a brew as this. Always I was on duty at my surgery or had no money after repairing the 'V.R.' on the wall in our apartment from Holmes' pistol practice—he, of course, refused to do it, for he thought it 'patriotic,' and 'quaint.' (V.R. stood for Victoria Regina, the Queen.) Unable to contain myself longer, I took a long, delicious pull at the drink and afterwards looked at the half-full tankard with some disappointment.

I was still regretting my deed as a scrawny beggar settled into the seat next to me. The man glanced at me and said in a low, horse voice; "You have some foam in your mustache."

That enraged me, mostly due to the fact that such a man would have the nerve to tell me so, but I will not deny the role alcohol had to do with it. "Man," I snarled, "how dare you speak to me in that way! I should—"

The tramp lifted a finger to his lips, and I saw a glint in his eyes familiar enough to startle me into silence. He beckoned slightly for me to return to my drink, and I did so.

"Would you wipe your mustache?" He said quietly, in a slightly higher voice that I recognized to be Sherlock's. Without moving my head I whispered to him, "Holmes, it's good and well that you decided to come, but this getup is unnecessary; no one cares one way or another about your eating habits."

He gave a soft snort and rolled his eyes. "I did not come to eat, Watson. And would you _please_ wipe the foam out of your mustache? Do you want Irene to see you like this?" As he spoke, he gestured over to a table across the room. At first all I saw was a man, but after a moment or two I realized it was Irene in a man's outfit.

I was getting tired of associating with all these eccentric people. "I could care less what Irene thinks of me. And why is she dressed as a man?"

Holmes didn't answer me, but glanced over with such pleading in his eyes that I reached up with my napkin and rubbed my upper lip.

"Better?" I asked.

He smiled, any foreign emotion in his actions now gone. "Much. And as to your comment about Mrs. Adler's dress, that is what aroused my suspicions; I saw her out the window after you left. If you remember, Watson, she is an expert on costume, so her attire alone is not the strange thing—it is the purpose."

"And so you're here to find out why she should be running around in pants?"

"I wouldn't put it quite that way… but, yes, I am. There must be some reason, for why would she bother otherwise?"

I nodded and took a sip of my beer. "That makes sense. But are you going to eat while you're here?"

He eyed my glass enviously. "No, but I might have to try some of that delicious-looking draft. How much was it?"

I named the price, expecting him to respond with some shock—as I've already said, it was not cheap. But instead my friend nodded approvingly and called for the bartender.

It was I, instead, that watched in shock as Holmes handed over the money casually, the thought seemingly not crossing his mind as to how much it was.

And my jaw hung open as I watched him drain it in a single gulp and call for another.

Holmes turned to me with a wide grin on his face. "This is quite good, Watson. Oh, yours is only half-gone? Do you not like it?" He gave me no time to respond and just kept on. "Yes, this is excellent. Best I think I've ever had. Say, I'm not smearing my make-up, am I?"

He began attempting to inspect the various parts of his costume by the reflection in a spoon.

I sighed. "Sherlock Holmes, I believe you are the fastest man to get drunk that I have ever seen."

"Hush, Watson." Immediately the glazed look left his face. "Look," he whispered, moving the spoon slightly so I could see. "A man has met Irene."

I started to turn around to watch, but Holmes stopped me.

"No, no, don't turn. They'll see."

So we peered at the squashed, upside-down reflection in the spoon.

The man sat down next to Irene, and they exchanged some casual pleasantries. The man wore nothing out of the ordinary, and seemed perfectly normal to me. After some time, an item exchanged hands and the stranger went on his way, soon followed by the disguised Irene.

"What was that about?" I asked.

Holmes shrugged. "I don't know, but we shall see. I put the irregulars to the job of following the man."

"You mean to say that you had those poor children waiting outside all this time!"

He gulped his second beer and nodded. "They were happy to do it for a few half-crowns; why do you ask?"

Holmes was a gentleman in his own right, but I doubt that he would ever understand why you shouldn't treat children like adults. Not to say he didn't _like_ them—he did, after all, call them his 'Baker Street Irregulars' and pay them for spying and such of the like—but in terms of decency sometimes… Well, he just didn't understand.

But then, the Irregulars all loved him and couldn't care less for me. It is something to think about, I suppose; but I digress.

Holmes drifted over to Irene's table, careful not to attract the attention of any of the pub's customers. I watched him inspect the glasses for fingerprints, but could tell by the way he held his shoulders that none were to be found. He glanced up, saw me looking at him, and motioned his hand for me to begin leaving the pub.

I obeyed, and he soon followed me.

But not before he drained the last half of my drink.

We had not waited long in our rooms before Mrs. Hudson led up a scraggly gang of boys. The apparent leader, who was also the dirtiest, stepped forward and nodded his head to us.

"Hullo Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson."

Holmes smiled. "Hello, Mark. Could you shadow the man?"

"Yup, we followed 'im to the Victoria 'otel."

"Very good. Did you ask after him?"

Mark bobbed his head enthusiastically. "Oh, yes. Freddy said we shouldn't bother, but I said 'We better, fer Mr. Holmes,' I said. An' we went in an' asked the lady at the desk who 'e was, an' she writ it on a paper."

"What did it say?" I asked.

As one, all the boys turned and glared at me. Even Holmes gave me a look.

Mark fixed his eyes coldly on me. "I can't read, Mr. Watson. Don' you know tha'? None o' us can." Still staring at me, the boy handed Sherlock the paper.

Choosing to ignore the situation, Holmes cleared his throat and began reading the note. "Room #29"—He suddenly choked on the words—"Mr. Norton."

We soon ushered the boys out, and I watched with apprehension as Holmes filled his pipe and tried to seem calm.

"There are bound to be more than one Norton in London. It is nothing more than a coincidence that he is in the same hotel as Irene. Don't you agree, Watson?"

"You claim that there are never coincidences."

His brow grew heavy with barely controlled emotions. "I have said nothing of the sort."

"I could almost swear to it."

"Well then, I was wrong. This is a coincidence."

I shook my head, determined to uncover the truth. "I am only trying to put your methods into use, Holmes. You have often encouraged me to do so."

He snarled and swung back to face the fire. "I _know_ that this is a coincidence, for I recognized the dead man. It _is_ her husband. I was there at the wedding, remember?"

That quieted me for a moment, though I think I was somewhat drunk, for I did not heed Sherlock's unspoken warning to stay quiet. "Are you sure? You could have been mistaken with all that blood."

With a sudden flare of anger Holmes leapt at me, knocking my armchair over in his rage. Looming over me as I sprawled on the floor, he nigh-on roared; "The dead man is Irene's husband, Watson! The other Norton is a mere coincidence, and nothing more. Do you hear me! A coincidence!" He stepped back enough for me to scramble to my feet. "Now, if you would only record as you are supposed to and leave the detecting to the _detectives_, all will be well. However, if you continue to meddle, well…you _better_ have somewhere else to go." With one last steely gaze, Holmes stalked into his room, leaving me standing stunned and shocked at this sudden turn of events.

I went to my bed and lay there for a while, struggling to clear my thoughts. As my little bit of alcohol began to wear off, I was able to put them in some kind of order.

Clearly all Holmes drank at Reddenford's had clouded his judgment and sharpened his anger; take that and combine it with my drunken impudence and it was no wonder I set him off like that. Surely he did not mean what he said about my involvement; it must have been said only in his passion, not meaning a word.

But what if he was serious? I would make one bad move and get thrown out of my home! Or do nothing, get accused of not doing my share, and suffer the same fate! With Holmes' erratic temperament, nothing could be reasoned out.

A shiver ran up my spine. I was not safe anywhere, while on this case at least. It was taking a normally unstable man, shaking him upside-down, and then trying to make him go on as normal— There was no way Holmes could do it. He _must_ solve Irene's case; it was against his nature to start and not finish, not to mention he promised the lady. But what if she was the killer? He would go into a black mania, destroying himself with drug and drink. And if it was some other person? He would beat himself up horribly for suspecting Irene, but it was obviously the better scenario.

But he was convinced of the woman's guilt, and Sherlock was a man who, once decided upon something, was almost unable to convince otherwise.

I rested my head in my hands and began to despair; the situation was impossible. Nothing could work. Why was I stuck with such a man, such a peculiar man? Well, really I wasn't; I could leave, go my own way and leave Holmes to go his own. But, regardless of all his oddities, he was a good, loyal friend, and I knew he had a heart of gold behind his icy demeanor. He would not leave me, thus I could not leave him.

I rose from my bed, a look of grim determination on my face.

Crazy or not, I would stand by my friend's side even if he drove me away; it was the only thing I could do. Holmes needed me in the aftermath of this case, whoever turned out to be the murderer.

Encouraged, I went into the sitting-room with an apology already on my lips; but Holmes was gone. He was in his room then, surely. I cautiously knocked on his door, fearing a burst of anger from the occupant, but all was silent.

That was odd.

I _had_ hidden the cocaine, hadn't I? Or, with all the unexpected behavior…

All my former courage had vanished. My heart pounded in my chest as I reached for the handle, fearing to find it locked; my breath caught as it turned easily.

"Holmes?" I called quietly, stepping inside. I peered around the messy interior, half-expecting to find the detective in a drug-induced stupor.

He was nowhere to be seen.

"Mrs. Hudson!" I cried, running out into the hall. "Mrs. Hudson!"

The housekeeper shuffled out off the kitchen. "What on earth _is_ it, Mr. Watson?"

"Holmes; do you know where he is? Have you seen him?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I can't say that I have seen Mr. Holmes lately. But there is nothing to get all worked up over; he can go out when he wishes, and he often does."

With a cry of frustration I pushed past her and hurried out into the street. I stood for a moment in the milling throng of people, looking franticly for Holmes.

My search was in vain; how could I hope to find him, not even knowing when he left? Defeat washing over me, I walked back into the apartments and went up the stairs to our rooms. The only thing I could do was wait.

I flung myself on the couch in front of the fire and, despite the worries and fears flooding my mind, I soon fell asleep.

Sometime later, a thin voice cut into my dreams.

"Watson, you really shouldn't be sleeping so much. It isn't healthy."

My eyes flung open to see the familiar pale face peering down at me. "Holmes!" I cried. "You've come back!"

He gave me a look and sat in his wicker chair. "Are you alright?"

"Never better!"

"Pray tell, then, why you thought I would run away like a dog?"

I almost laughed. "I didn't mean for it to sound like that, but what am I to think when you get so angry and then disappear?"

He snorted. "I didn't 'disappear;' Lestrade came by to ask for my assistance with a case they couldn't figure out. I was going to tell you, but I thought you were asleep and didn't want to wake you."

"Oh. I wasn't sleeping."

"Hmm. I didn't mean to scare you, then."

"It's alright," I said, leaving the sofa to get some brandy off the shelf. "I really shouldn't have worried. It's just how this case affects you, Holmes! I cannot bear for you to leave my sight."

The detective stared at me. "What on earth do you mean, Watson? I am in no way bothered by this case. I know who did it, and I am pleased."

"I still disagree with you on that."

"On what?"

"On Irene being the killer."

Holmes rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. "She is _not_ the killer, my friend."

I almost choked on my swallow of brandy. "What? But you said—"

"Oh, pish-posh, Watson; how could Irene be the killer? I don't know where you got that idea. She is the picture of innocence! The true killer is clear enough."

I was beginning to wonder if I was dreaming. "But you said…? Oh, bother… Who is it, then? However clear to you it may be, we don't all have your brilliance."

Holmes snorted. "It is the man posing as Mr. Norton, of course. He has obviously taken that name to throw the police off the scent and allow him to do whatever he wishes and kill as he pleases. He was seen leaving the house of the deceased."

"Who saw him?"

"One of the Irregulars; I am having him shadowed."

"Oh, I see."

My scrawny companion curled up in his chair and reached for a coverlet. "We, that is, Lestrade and I, have laid a trap and are going to spring it tonight. Do you want to come, Watson, and help nab the prize?"

"Oh, yes, of course!"

"Very well. Could you fix us up some bags for the wait? It may take some time, and in all likelihood it will be horribly dull; it should be best to take some food and the like. We leave at 6 o' clock; wake me before then, would you?" In a moment he was asleep.

I sighed and rose to go do as ordered.

A few hours and burnt fingers later, I folded a makeshift supper into three parcels and went into the sitting-room to wake Holmes; but as soon as I entered the room he spoke, not moving from his position. The suddenness made me jump.

"Don't say that you've made that nasty stuff you call spaghetti, have you Watson?"

"Oh, my goodness Holmes, you startled me!"

He opened a single eye and looked at me. "The question, my friend."

"Oh, the spaghetti? No, of course not, why would I make spaghetti?"

Holmes flung off his blanket and sprung out of his chair. "I could have sworn I smelled tomatoes and herbs."

"Hmm. You must be mistaken. I made sandwiches."

"Very good. You know I can't stand spaghetti, not to mention the state it would be in after a couple of hours in a bag? No, no, no, that wouldn't do at all. Glad you showed some foresight about that."

I smiled, letting Holmes take the lead as we exited the apartment, but as soon as I felt it safe the forced grin left, panic overtaking my features. I reached down, cautiously feeling the bottom of the paper bags, and stifled a gasp as I felt the red tomato sauce leaking out of my spaghetti.

How would I ever explain this to Holmes?

I didn't have to; after Holmes rounded a convenient corner, I tossed the bags of stuff into a bush. "Hey!" I yelled, feigning alarm. "Come back with my bag!"

In an instant, the detective sprinted back for me.

"What happened?" He asked. "Did someone attack you?"

I nodded, attempting to put some fear into my voice. "Yes, a beggar, I think… He just leapt at me, grabbed our supper, and fled!"

Holmes pulled out his magnifying glass and began inspecting the sidewalk. "We'll catch him, then. No one robs my Boswell and gets away with it."

I coughed to hide my worry; this was unforeseen. How long before he found that I had been alone, or worse—discovered the spaghetti in the bushes! I began heading down the path.

"Come on, Holmes. It is no matter; maybe Lestrade brought food, and if not we can go buy something."

The man would not budge. "No, we have plenty of time. See, here is your shoeprint, now I just have to find the beggar's. Where did he come after you?"

"Oh, I don't know… It happened too fast."

"Hmm."

"Oh, come on! Why is it all that important?"

"Pride, my dear Watson, Pride. And there is also the small fact that if one thief gets away, it urges on the others and before long you will not be able to step foot outside for fear of a mugging. It is a simple enough problem; I should solve it in less than five minutes, if I could only find his footprints…"

This wasn't going well at all. Glancing around for some distraction, I spotted a man running towards us. There was a firm determination in his stride, and I thought it a good enough concern to bother my friend with.

"Um, Holmes?"

"What is it, Watson?" He looked up, and laughed when he saw the man. "Well, if it isn't Lestrade!"

"Huh?" The portly man heading for us was in no way similar to the scrawny inspector.

"Mr. Holmes!" The man cried, and I started at the familiar voice. "Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade repeated, panting, as he slowed to a stop next to us. I realized now what was responsible for the added bulk: sweaters and coats, what looked to be pounds of them, were near-about smothering the slight man.

"Ah… I-I was looking for you," the inspector breathed. "I was worried you had forgotten about our… engagement."

Holmes tut-tutted. "It is only 5:50," he said, not bothering to look at his pocket-watch. "We are not scheduled to meet until 6:00."

Anger flushed Lestrade's face red, and he gaped open-mouthed for a moment before finding his words. "Only 5:50? _Only_ 5:50! A murder is on the loose, Holmes, and you say it's only 5:50!"

"5:51, now. Time to go."

"Oh, then. The minute makes all the different, doesn't it?"

If Sherlock was aware of the callous tone, he did not show it. "Quite; It takes exactly 8 minutes for me to walk from here to our rally point, and I have added one to allow for yours' and Watson's shorter stride; 9 minutes. But we must hurry now, this talk is slowing us up and I do not wish to be late."

The detective struck out down the path, cane swinging at his side. Lestrade and I glanced at each other, and I saw my thoughts reflected in his eyes:

Was Sherlock Holmes just crazy, or was he truly brilliant?

Exactly nine minutes later we were settling down in some thick undergrowth in the garden of a respected High Court judge. Luckily Lestrade brought some food—jerky and apples, much more logical fare then spaghetti—and we ate in silence while waiting for the crook, blankets bundled around us to keep out the early spring chill.

It had not been long until there was a movement in the deep shadows surrounding the veranda of the house and a man, dressed entirely in black, stepped into the moonlight.

Lestrade started and began to stand up, but Holmes lifted a hand for the inspector to stay seated.

"I can handle this better then you, I think." He whispered.

Hunching himself over and throwing a blanket about his lean shoulders, Holmes hastily disguised his appearance and stepped out to speak with the man.

The grating voice that came from my friend's mouth shocked me, how different it was from his usual sophisticated tone.

'Yeh," Holmes said, "You tha man who is lookin' an' able to do tha durty work fur gents like me?"

The man in black nodded. "Yes, for the right price no job is too messy."

"Aye, aye. Yur prepared fur dis one?"

"Quite. Oh, wait; was it the Missus or the Mister that I'm doing?"

"The Mister, I is thinkin'."

The criminal smiled. "Yes, it was! I was told to kill a Mr. McDonald, the man who lives here! Of course. But you must excuse me, I need to hurry and do it; I have a dinner I do not wish to miss."

Quite unexpectedly, the comment left Holmes shocked, and he stood motionless as the murderer turned and began to inspect the back door. Even though it had been Sherlock's job when discussed earlier (Do to his superior strength), Lestrade rushed out and tackled the felon.

The tussle was extremely violent, and I had just left the hiding-spot to try and help when Holmes stepped over and delivered one crushing blow that knocked the man out cold.

Even by the time I reached his side Holmes was still trembling all over with rage, fury as I have never seen darkening his face.

But in a moment it was gone, and the detective gave a laugh.

"Why didn't you knock him out, Lestrade? It was a nice thought, but you didn't have to go and wait for me."

Lestrade, who was nursing a bloody nose and a soon-to-be-black eye, glanced up at Sherlock Holmes and blinked, annoyed.

Holmes ignored him and began to whistle, heading for the street to try and find a cab. I sighed, shaking my head as I stared after him. I was exhausted now; time with Sherlock Holmes was very taxing on the nerves. With a parting word to Lestrade, I said, "Well, we can arrest the man now, can't we?"

The inspector's voice was slurred slightly, and a slight medical interest poked through my lethargy. "Uhh, yess," he said. "We have ah witness now, you that is, and he practh…practs… nearly gave a full-on confession."

I ignored my doctor's instinct; it was much too late right now. "Good, that is good." With a polite nod, I started after my companion.

Holmes stood beside a cab, apparently having waited for me to catch up. With a quick smile of greeting, he popped in the cab and I followed behind him. The cab lurched to a start, and we were jostled along to cobblestones to the beat of clopping hooves.

Beside me, Holmes had sunk down in his seat, chin on chest. For a moment I thought he was asleep, but then, in the light of a passing streetlamp, I saw a glint of his clear eyes.

Something was bothering him; but what wasn't, on this case? With a sigh, I looked away and gazed out my window. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I knew he didn't want me to, with how hard he was trying to hide his emotions right now. I remember thinking that I would talk to him tomorrow and figure all of this out, but then sleep overtook me like a black wave.

I awoke in my bed, blankets all bundled around me. More asleep then not, I made to leave the bed, but smacked into the wall instead.

"Brilliant," I moaned. It only took me a minute to realize that I was in Holmes' bed, not my own. Throwing off my coverings and exiting the correct side of the bed, I was farther dismayed to find myself in a now-wrinkled shirt and pants.

"Well," I said to myself, picking my coat off of the ground from where it lay in a heap, "What did you expect? Him to dress you in your sleep-clothes and press and fold your suit? Hardly! He barely does that for himself!"

Sighing, I opened Sherlock's door and stepped into the sitting-room.

What my eyes saw almost made me want to run back into that room, pigsty as it was. Blue smoke filled the apartment, and amongst it Holmes darted, spraying little spurts of something into the air with a bottle.

"What on _earth_ are you doing!"

Holmes froze in mid-squirt and flashed a smile. "Hello, Watson. How are you? I seem to have found a chemical reaction between sweenacophil, hermalanitite, and water that makes-"

"A completely unnecessary cloud of blue."

"Seemingly. But I have reason to believe that, upon adding more water, it may induce hallucinations."

I ran over and snatched the bottle from his hand. "Then why are you adding more water? It is insanity!"  
>Sherlock Holmes sniffed and gazed at his fog sadly as it gradually dispersed. "That could have had very important scientific value."<p>

"Great lot of good it would have done a man with hallucinations."

Holmes sighed. "I did experiments of all kinds before you came, and I never was harmed."

"Never?"

"Not in any way that lasted."

"How do you know?"

Holmes frowned deeply and peered at me. "Very good point. How do I know that you are not just a hallucination induced by opium and nicotine? I have heard that you should not take those together…"

I began to laugh, but Sherlock continued to stare at me, giving the uncanny feeling that he believed what he was saying.

"But of course I'm not, Holmes."

"You _would_ say that, wouldn't you?"

"Touch me if you want; I'm as real as this room."

"This room could be a vision too."

I rolled my eyes. "Do you think that?"

"Anything is possible, if it is not impossible, and this is _not_ impossible."

With a great sigh of exasperation, I swung around and headed for my room to change.

I left my room a short time later, the clean clothes feeling good after the wrinkled mess I had been wearing. I was pleased to find that no more clouds had filled the apartment; however, I was quite discouraged to find Holmes at his little chemical-table, heating something in a large pot.

I tentatively approached him. "What are you doing?"

He didn't look up. "Reheating the spaghetti you made last night."

My mouth gaped, shocked, and so Holmes took my silence as means to continue.

"I went out early this morning before the crowds came along to smudge things, and what do you know—" He swung around and smiled at me— "Your _extremely_ light-footed beggar wasn't so hungry after all, and he dumped the bag right there in the bushes.

I sighed. "I'm sorry, Holmes…I just…"

"No, no, you shouldn't be sorry…really." The detective then snorted with contempt. "No, not sorry; you should be ashamed! First even _considering_ spaghetti for a stakeout, but then coming up with such a flimsy excuse to be rid of it! One would think that after all this time with me you would have learned _something_."

That enraged me, and I felt my hands balling up into fists even though I knew I would be the losing side in a fight. "Why on earth do you always insult my intellect!" I said, barley able to keep my temper down. "While I may not have your gift for the minute, I _am_ a doctor, and that is almost a detective in its own right."

Holmes rolled his eyes, but said nothing and only went over to the window to smoke a cigarette.

I couldn't stand such brush off, and I was about to say something extremely rude when I noticed his hand at his watch-chain. Bruised ego immediately deflated, I sighed deeply and went to sit on the sofa.

I had a guess as to what was going on, but I had to go about proving it tactfully. "Holmes," I asked, "has Scotland Yard sent you the results on that thumbprint? I saw some papers on your desk."

I saw a sudden pull on the cigarette, and knew I had hit upon it. "Yes, they did; no record in their database. It's also not the killer we caught, so he must have had an accomplice… Lestrade wants to handle that, though. Huh, he really needn't bother; I could tell him exactly what happened."

"And that is…?"

Holmes peered at me from the corner of his eye. "Really, is it not clear? The man killed Irene's husband, took on his name to free him up a bit from the authorities, and went about murdering people. He had some accomplice, as proved by the print, and there you are."

"Uh-huh… What was it that the man said last night that bothered you so?"

"Oh, that? I was just surprised that he could treat murders so casually, just business to be done before pleasure; that's all."

"Oh, I see now… Of course!" Of course nothing; I could clearly see that he was lying. His expression had grown a bit too hard, as if he was trying to cover something.

Sherlock Holmes walked to the mounds of papers piled in a heap at the wall, and pulled out his violin from the mess, somehow knowing exactly where it was. Sitting up in his wicker chair, he began to scrape at it in the horribly aggravating way that exposed his moods; Melodious and happy when in good humor, harsh and dissonant when in bad, and a multitude of sounds for everything in-between.

Right now it was a quiet melody that reminded me of a cold rain—a cold rain that could turn into a thunderstorm at any moment.

And then I had it.

It only took a second for me to put it all together—but I could never tell Holmes that I discovered it. I rose and began heading to my room to think it over. When I reached the door, I looked back a moment at my friend.

Something glimmered silver. Was that a tear, or the dreaded syringe?

Oh, what did it matter right now? I shook my head sadly and entered my bedroom.

Sherlock Holmes had twice been overcome by a woman's wit.


End file.
